


the lily and the rose

by orphan_account



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:55:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25321999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Horde. Alliance. Two of Azeroth's most learned and powerful magic wielders, one bottle of shal'dorei icewine, and an uncertain, burgeoning armistice prove fertile ground for a delicate promise to bloom.
Relationships: Jaina Proudmoore/Thalyssra, Jaina Proudmoore/Thrall
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29





	the lily and the rose

**Author's Note:**

> jaina is bi and thalyssra is lesbian and that's that on that!

The sinking late-afternoon sun cast long orange and gold shadows across the bare plains before the towering, imposing main gates of Orgrimmar. Heavy tables that seemed to stretch the length of cornfields were laid out side by side, the roughly sawn wood bound with thick iron bands that could almost, but not quite, conceal that the planks were still almost more tree than lumber. Here and there, wild grasses that swayed nearly to the shoulders of the orcs themselves lay crushed and broken beneath the tables and the benches they’d brought out, and the sweet smell of sap bloomed up from underfoot, warmed by the sun.

Lady Jaina Proudmoore knew that an armistice was not a peace, but she also knew what sharing a meal signified for an orc; an offer to sit a place at the table was an offer not lightly extended. And though they had not been invited into the city proper, here they sat all the same, just outside its gates, some more uncomfortably than others, in front of the same platters stacked with roast kodo and what Jaina presumed to be Barrens zhevra, given its similar texture to the venison to which the troops of the Alliance were more accustomed. Smooth wooden skewers pinned flame-seared fish, plantains, and chunks of pumpkin together, their edges blackened to a crisp, belying the warm, savory fall-apart center within.

There were more dishes than Jaina recognized, all told, as well as ale, wine, and spring water being served in wooden mugs, hammered tin steins, and tanned hide skins — and by some marvel, she even spotted a handful of watermelons ready for carving, shipped no doubt from Stranglethorn Vale to Ratchet by goblin merchants, and then sold north for a pretty copper.

Sap beetles zipped past her ears now and then, lazy in the lowering sunlight, and Jaina lifted her glass for a drink. This was some vintage from Suramar, she’d been told, a white ice wine with exquisite filtering, and while she more often preferred reds, the Kalimdor varieties tended toward the sour end and had previously triggered debilitating headaches, sometimes within minutes. This shal’dorei blend, on the other hand, stayed refreshingly light and sweet, the aftertaste reminiscent of lavender, or sugared mint.

In any case, it had paired rather nicely with the fish.

With the evening coming on, those gathered at the tables had begun to splinter off into smaller groups — most according to faction, though some broke with their ranks and chose to smoke or continue drinking in mixed company, a sight Jaina viewed with similarly mixed emotions. She remembered the last time opposing sides had come together with the ambitious goal of fostering peace, in the highlands of Arathi, a treeline and the rolling hills on opposite sides of the open field.

That day had not ended in victory for anyone, Jaina thought, save the one person who served nothing and no one to begin with. The person who had finally made clear that lack of allegiance by renouncing her people, whose absence had paved the way for the end of _this_ day, with hope on the horizon, even in the midst of grief.

Sylvanas Windrunner.

Jaina shivered and sipped from her glass again, frost spreading out beneath her fingertips to chill the wine once more. There was still a battle ahead, and it would take every shred of diplomacy to raise even the trestles of a bridge between Alliance and Horde. Pleased as she had been to see Thrall returning to a place of honor across from her, as once before… _long_ before, when she still made the trip through Ratchet up from Dustwallow Marsh to visit the red brick and iron of Orgrimmar… times had changed, and more than that, times had changed _them_.

No lingering, longing touch on the arm could make up for that difference, no matter how she might have wished it could — and even admitting that wish was out of her reach, had flown from possibility with the sunrise following the rescue of Baine Bloodhoof.

She closed her eyes. She’d allowed herself to indulge in reminiscence, then, despite her better judgment. Seeing her… old friend again, after his years away, had been more than enough to permit the nostalgia. But there were heavier times still to come, and little kindness left to claim for those who clung to what might have been.

Jaina turned away from the western sky, feeling the heat of the sun ease off of her face as the plains turned shades of orange and pink, the sweet smell of crushed grass, meat, and spices blended with the incense of tobacco and smoked herbs. Up on the ramparts of Orgrimmar, watch fires came to life with slow, glowing flickers and delicate curls of black smoke.

She lifted her glass to her lips again, breathing in the crisp scent of the wine, this time noting a hint of… jasmine, she thought, that wasn’t present before. Perhaps this was an effect of the drydown, or the warming temperature of the wine in the absence of her frost magic. Or —

“Is the vintage to your liking, Lady Proudmoore?”

Jaina blinked, startled from her inner monologue by a warm, cultured voice, melodic in tone but colored with a caramel huskiness.

The First Arcanist of the recently liberated shal’dorei stood towering above her — not with intimidation but simply by sheer nature of her height and posture. The hood of her garment was pushed back, revealing a pair of laughing, glowing eyes and a glimmering, silvery fall of hair that reflected the glow of the sunset.

Jaina cleared her throat, embarrassed by her easy disarmament. “What?”

“Sorry. Lord Admiral.” Thalyssra’s dusk-purple lips curved into an amiable smile. She gestured to a place on the bench beside her, palm open-faced, her eyebrows raised in question. “The wine. Does it suit you?”

“Oh — please, of course.” Jaina straightened her back, called back to manners and etiquette, and turned from side to side briefly as though looking for something to clear from her immediate surroundings, that Thalyssra not sit down to a dirty setting. “That is — yes. The vintage is… very fine.”

The arcanist’s smile widened, and she stepped over the bench, sitting with a delicate downdraft of air that lifted jasmine into the breeze once again, her silver jewelry clinking musically as the deep violet colors of her robe fluttered and settled into stillness against her thighs.

“I’d hoped you’d say so. The shal’dorei have not forgotten the champions of the Alliance, nor the aid they supplied us in Suramar.” Thalyssra inclined her head. “It is an honor to repay you in even this small way.”

Jaina raised an eyebrow. “Even after all this?”

The long, silver eyebrows knit together as Thalyssra pursed her lips at the question, her mouth twisting slightly as she seemed to wrestle with a response.

Jaina regretted the immediate suspicion of her tone — the nightborne were new to the Horde, and had none of the history of troubles that so plagued the founding races of each faction. “Forgive me,” she began, but the arcanist lifted a hand, delicate rings shifting against one another on long (and equally delicate) pale lavender fingers.

“Even now,” Thalyssra said, her eyes scanning the table before her and finding an untouched bottle of tall cobalt blue glass, one of shal’dorei make, its pearled wax seal unbroken. Her rings struck the surface with the sound of tiny bells as she picked it up, drawing it closer to work loose the wax. “There are others whose rancor will be less easily satisfied, I am sure, Lord Admiral, but—”

“Jaina.”

It was Thalyssra’s turn to blink, casting butterfly-soft shadows on her cheeks. “I… beg your pardon?”

“Just Jaina.” It had been some odd years, she thought, since she’d asked for such familiarity. Some odd years since she had in fact _been_ “just Jaina.” She offered what she hoped was a conciliatory, reassuring smile, though she could feel the warmth of a blush in her cheeks. Perhaps the nightborne would simply think it the heat from the sun.

Thalyssra smiled, briefly, a gentle twitch at the corners of her mouth. “Jaina, then… in all honesty, I must confess, I did not want this war. But being so newly welcomed to the Horde, I did not… _we_ did not feel it was our place to speak out.”

The wax seal broken, the shal’dorei hesitated, then reached out to refill Jaina’s glass, receiving a nod of thanks in return . She glanced to either side of them; most gatherings had now fully withdrawn into closer circles, their improvised campfires — both of timber and of arcane crystals — built up near tents or the walls of the city. There was still light in the sky, but it was a soft glow in shades of pink and blue. In the east, the first pinprick lights of stars were beginning to appear.

Emboldened by the relative solitude, Thalyssra poured a small dram of the wine for herself into an unused wooden mug, though her eyes darted furtively back and forth. Jaina watched with curiosity, giving her space to continue.

She cleared her throat. “I realize this must seem folly to you. We’d just overthrown one tyrant; surely we could have mustered the strength of our forces to raise our voice against another—”

Jaina reached out, impulsively, a soft furrow between her ice white eyebrows as her fingers landed gently on Thalyssra’s arm. The mage was vaguely aware of the warmth of the silver bracelets and bands she wore, and of the gleaming twilight-purple tattoos that now shimmered on the shal’dorei’s skin, more visible in the dimming light.

“I don’t think that,” she said, her voice low but warm with sincerity as she held Thalyssra’s gaze. “Nor did I ever. No one could have expected that from you.”

Thalyssra’s smile was weak, faltering, and she looked politely away, a look Jaina recognized as one she herself had often made when she wanted to maintain a particular demeanor. The arcanist was carrying a guilt and shame of her own, Jaina realized, and she pressed her palm more firmly to her arm.

“Believe me,” she insisted, with quiet intensity, tilting her head to match Thalyssra’s. “That burden is not yours to bear.”

The arcanist looked back at her, silent for some long moments while considering, and Jaina hesitantly leaned back to drink from her glass. As she lifted her hand from Thalyssra’s arm, the elf surprised her by catching Jaina’s fingers in her own, for just a moment. The pressure was so gentle Jaina could almost believe she had imagined it — though she did _not_ think she was imagining the curious, compelling stare with which the nightborne had her fixed.

“I will remember your words, Lord Ad — _Jaina_ ,” she corrected herself, a glimmer in her glowing eyes, “though the belief may have to come along behind them, in time.”

Thalyssra stood with a hushed whisper of her robes, replacing the cork of the wine bottle and setting the vessel before Jaina’s place setting. “Please,” she said, inclining her head respectfully, hand gesturing to the cobalt blue glass. “As we’ve shared this bottle tonight, take it with you. As a remembrance, in the days ahead.”

Jaina nodded, craning her neck to meet Thalyssra’s eyes. “I will.”

“And perhaps, as a promise?” One glowing eye twinkled with mischief. “I am still curious about this… ‘Kul Tiran trade secret.’”

Her brow furrowed briefly. “What secret was — oh, yes,” she recalled. “The ship — the cannons, I believe, wasn’t it?” Jaina felt one eyebrow raise, a consequence of the smirk she was trying, very diplomatically, to control.

“Yes…” Thalyssra mused, seeming almost to purr. “The ship. Of course.” Her gaze drifted to the west, where the last traces of lavender were nearly lost over the horizon. A gentle, beatific curve touched her lips. “You must promise we’ll speak of it soon,” she added, her focus returning to the seated Lord Admiral.

The encroaching darkness and chill of the night air hid, for once, the pink blush Jaina knew for certain was now coloring her cheeks.

_But why…?_

“Yes — of course, First Arcanist. It would be my honor. When times are more certain.” Jaina lowered her head, nodding respectfully, setting her glass on the heavy table and standing to bid her companion farewell.

“Of course.”

The elf turned to go, then hesitated, turning back to Jaina, and for a moment she stood very close — so close that not only could Jaina smell the jasmine of her perfume (or of _her_ ), but the sugared lavender of the wine on her lips as well, the white flower oil combed through her silver hair. There was silence rushing in her ears, the sound of a wave, the wind, the sea echoing in a murex shell, hidden deep within a smooth, pink spiral, her heartbeat racing, sand flowing out from under her feet with the tides and —

The moment passed.

“Oh…and please,” Thalyssra said, her head ducked almost shyly — or perhaps, simply the better to see the shorter woman.

“Yes?”

“As you said.” The arcanist smiled. “Just ‘Thalyssra’ will do.”

Jaina returned her gaze, wholly, contemplative. “…very well, Thalyssra.” She nodded again and clasped her hands in front of her as she bowed. “I wish you well this evening. And the days to come.”

Thalyssra swept one long arm wide, dipping the opposite leg behind her in a bow, all long lines and draped robes in silver and violet. “ _Ith'nala kanesh_ ,” she spoke in Shalassian, and turned from Jaina with a single parting glance, the briefest of smiles still on her dusk-purple lips.

Jaina watched her go until her outline disappeared, her figure lost in the wild shadows of the flames of the campfires and the darkness of the Barrens proper. She turned back to the table, where the gifted bottle of wine now looked more like a expanse of the night sky, cobalt blue turned onyx black, reflecting the sparkling gleam of Kalimdor’s stars as she picked it up.

A promise, Thalyssra had said.

_I’ve made promises before._


End file.
